


We Only Part To Meet Again

by yalublyutebya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Romance, The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:26:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yalublyutebya/pseuds/yalublyutebya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One year after Reichenbach, John is sent to Corsica on an errand for Mycroft. What he doesn't expect to find is a second chance to say all the things he never said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful Lady-T.  
> Previously posted on Livejournal.

Corsica is truly beautiful, all spectacular mountains and endless greenery and a stunning coastline that John follows as he drives from Ajaccio up to the very tip of the island. It’s quiet too, which is a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of London, and especially the people of London. Because, in all honesty, it is the people who have made London unbearable for John. It is a city full of those who are only too happy to doubt, to mock, to cast aspersions on a dead man’s character. John is well and truly fed up - and quite happy to get away from it all. Yet he wonders, not for the first time, what he’s doing here: on a deserted beach at the northern tip of the island, doing a favour for Mycroft Holmes, of all people.     
  
He had spoken to Mycroft a scant three times in the year that has passed since Sherlock's death, because if Sherlock was not around to disdain his brother for the betrayal that led to his downfall, then John was quite content to do it for him. Apparently this wasn't enough to deter Mycroft and so John had been surprised - and yes, a little annoyed - when Mycroft had asked for his help.    
  
Just go to Corsica and pick up a message - simple enough, really, if a bit cloak and dagger. John had refused, twice, but Mycroft Holmes was nothing if not persistent. He probably had a hundred lackeys that could have carried out this simple errand, but for some reason he had been adamant that John be the one to go. John had finally relented, having neither the energy nor the inclination to continue arguing indefinitely and especially not with a Holmes. They always won in the end and, after all, he could probably do with some time away from London and the memories that still haunted him.  
  
It was how he found himself on an isolated beach in the middle of the Mediterranean on a warm June afternoon, waiting for a man he didn't know to give him a message for a man he doesn't particularly like. The beach is empty except for a local fisherman (blonde-haired, he notes absently, slightly strange for this part of the world) who is doing something with a boat further along the beach. He had given John a friendly wave when John arrived but then returned to his work, so John had discounted him as being the mysterious messenger. John stood around awkwardly for a few minutes, before dropping to the warm sand and staring mindlessly out to sea while he waited.    
  
An hour later and John is more than a little annoyed. Not a single person has come to the beach: it’s still just him and the fisherman. He is angry enough that he pulls out his phone and, regardless of the cost of international calls, dials Mycroft's number. At least, he tries to - and then he realises that, quite predictably, there is no signal on this beach in the middle of nowhere.     
  
"Damn."    
  
He’s really annoyed now and he pushes himself to his feet, muttering angrily to himself.    
  
"Right. Brilliant. _Bloody_ brilliant."    
  
He growls and rakes a hand through his hair in frustration.    
  
"This is ridiculous. What the hell am I even doing here?"    
  
He turns to leave, and it's then he hears a voice. A deep voice that he has only heard in his dreams for the last year.    
  
"Hello, John."    
  
He drops his phone in shock and he thinks he might faint, but instead he closes his eyes; tries to will the apparition away.     
  
"This isn't real," he whispers, "You're not here."    
  
"John."    
  
That voice. God, that voice. He knows he shouldn't succumb to this madness but he wants to see this vision. If he's going crazy, he's at least going to take advantage of it because he hasn't seen Sherlock for a year. He wonders what his imagination will produce. He turns slowly towards the source of the voice and frowns when he takes in the vision before him. His imagination has apparently put Sherlock's face on the fisherman's body because the Sherlock before him is blonde and slightly tanned, wiry and lean in jeans and a T-shirt.    
  
John rubs his face tiredly. He doesn't want to be haunted by a ghost that doesn't even look like the friend he lost.    
  
"You're not really here. Go away."    
  
He covers his face in desperation because it hurts. It still hurts so goddamn much he feels sick to the stomach.     
  
"I'm not a figment of your imagination, John," the vision says and John scoffs, but then there is a hand at his elbow, and it's like a lightning strike to his senses. His confused gaze flies to pale blue eyes and his legs buckle but Sherlock's there, lowering him gently to the sand.     
  
"Sherlock," he breathes, reaching out to grab Sherlock's shoulder, warm and solid under his fingers.    
  
"Yes."    
  
All he can do is stare, because this can't be real. _I saw you fall_ , he wants to say, _I saw your lifeless body._    
  
"You're blonde," is what he actually says and of all the things he could have said, it is probably the most inane. Sherlock seems to think so too because he's trying hard to suppress a smile and not quite succeeding.    
  
"Easier to blend in."    
  
And yes, John supposes it is. There had been something otherworldly about the combination of that dark hair and pale skin, pale eyes. Now, he almost looks like a normal bloke. Except he's not. He's Sherlock, and he's supposed to be dead, and John doesn't know what to do with that. He wants to be angry, he wants to scream and shout, but he's completely numb.     
  
The next few minutes are a blur but one minute he’s on the beach and then he’s not, he’s sitting at a rickety table in a beach house and Sherlock is putting a cup of tea in front of him. This must be a dream, because Sherlock never makes the tea. As if he can sense John’s confusion, Sherlock sits beside him and rests a hand somewhat hesitantly over John’s on the table.    
  
“John, I know this is a shock to you.”    
  
John just scoffs and stares at Sherlock’s hand resting on his.    
  
“I'm not sure where to start, how to -” Sherlock says.    
  
“‘Sorry I lied to you and made you think I was dead’ might be a good start,” John cuts in because he’s starting to get his wits together again and, now he is, it hurts twice as much. It’s all been a lie: his grief, his loss, his pain. He can feel his left hand starting to tremble and he clenches it into a fist and raises his head to meet Sherlock’s gaze.    
  
“John, I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, genuinely contrite.    
  
“Why?” John snaps. _Why did you do it?_ His eyes fall to their hands once more because he can’t bear to look Sherlock in the eye: it’s too overwhelming and he has questions he needs answered before he can break down.     
  
“To keep you safe. You and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade.”    
  
“Moriarty?”    
  
“Dead.”    
  
“Really dead? Or fake dead?” John asks, raising his head once more as, finally, anger starts to make itself known. “It must be nice being a genius and being able to fake your own death when things get tough.”    
  
“Really dead,” Sherlock says calmly, ignoring the rest of the remark, and John hates him for his calm. He tears his hand from Sherlock’s grip and twists his fingers together, knuckles turning white from the pressure.     
  
“I am sorry, John. If I’d had any other choice...”    
  
John shakes his head, fixes his eyes on the dirty floor.    
  
“You were dead, Sherlock. Do you have any idea-”    
  
“Yes.”    
  
There is something awful in Sherlock’s voice that draws John’s reluctant gaze and in that moment, he sees what a difference a year can make. Aside from the change in hair colour, it is evident that Sherlock is thinner than before, but there is still a wiry strength visible in his bare forearms and the hint of bicep. There is also a scar beside his right ear and another, much worse, trailing down his left arm. He looks older, he looks exhausted and, as he holds John’s gaze, he looks completely lost.    
  
“Where have you been?” John asks, his voice wavering despite his best efforts.    
  
“All over. Moriarty’s network stretches across most of Europe, parts of Asia, Africa, the US of course, even South America.”    
  
“Alone?”    
  
“Yes. Mycroft has helped with a few necessary things - money, passports, that sort of thing - but I haven't seen him."    
  
“And now he’s sent me.”    
  
“Yes.”    
  
“Why not just come home?”    
  
“I can’t,” Sherlock says, “Not yet.” He pauses, considers, then adds: “Maybe not ever.”    
  
“So why am I here, Sherlock?”    
  
Sherlock looks at him for a long moment, then drops his gaze to the table.    
  
“I’ve missed you, John,” he says quietly.    
  
Somehow, it is this soft admission that makes John truly angry. So angry that he has to close his eyes and take a quick, sharp breath, fists clenching so hard he can feel his nails digging into his palm.    
  
“If you’re going to hit me, I’d rather you get it over with.”    
  
He lets out a shaky breath but refuses to look at Sherlock, not while he has so little control over his temper.    
  
“I don’t want to hit you,” he bites out.    
  
“You quite clearly do.”    
  
“ _Sherlock._ ” He doesn’t say anything more, because there are too many things he wants to say but none of them will come out: _I hate you. Why did you do this to me? Do you realise what it did to me, losing you? I missed you too, you idiot._  
  
He pushes the chair back with a start and gets to his feet, trembling hands running over his face. He realises, with a burst of embarrassment, that despite his anger he is close to tears. He swallows hard, forces the tears back and braces his hands on the back of the chair, making himself look at Sherlock again. _Oh God, he’s alive. He’s really alive._    
  
“Look,” he says, pursing his lips, “This is too much. I’m... I’m going to go.”    
  
Sherlock doesn’t look surprised in the least and John nods, once, twice and turns for the door.     
  
“Will you be back?” Sherlock asks, his voice stopping John at the door.    
  
“I honestly don’t know,” he answers. He leaves before he can change his mind.    
  
****    
  
John finds his way back to the beach, back to the rental car, and somehow gets himself back to his hotel room without incident, although he can’t remember any of the journey. He shuts the door behind him and just like that, he’s on the floor and he’s shaking and he can’t stop the tears. His stomach feels like it’s been twisted into a knot and his chest burns and his head is thumping from too many thoughts; too many emotions. He’s angry - furious, even - but he’s also so happy he might burst and he hasn’t felt like this, hasn’t felt anything this strongly since he watched his best friend plummet to his death. And now he’s not dead and John’s world has been turned upside down once again.     
  
John spends two hours in his room, tearing himself into pieces and then trying desperately to regain some control, and then he realises what an idiot he’s been. What if this was his only chance to see Sherlock? What if Sherlock is going to disappear into the ether again and those few minutes were all he had? He’s in the car before he can process it and speeding back to the beach, finding his way to the beach house which is half a mile further down. He parks and jumps out of the car and then runs round to the back of the house. He rushes up the steps, across the veranda, throws the kitchen door open - and lets out a harsh breath in relief. Sherlock hasn’t moved an inch. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, elbows resting on the top, hands pressed together against his lips.    
  
“You came back,” he says slowly.    
  
“You sound surprised.”    
  
“I never could predict your reactions.”    
  
John smiles, just a twitch of the lips at first, and then he’s grinning so much it hurts.    
  
“Come here,” John says, moving round the table and beckoning Sherlock up out of his chair.    
  
“Are you going to punch me now?” Sherlock asks, arching an eyebrow, but he gets to his feet anyway.    
  
“No, I’m not going to punch you, you prat.”    
  
And then he’s wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s middle and it’s awkward because they’ve never done this before, but John simply doesn’t care. He saw Sherlock dead, his head smashed in and those blue eyes completely lifeless; he'd felt the lack of pulse in his wrist in the few seconds before he was pulled away; he'd buried his best friend, and grieved for him. After all that, he thinks Sherlock can bloody well put up with a few minutes of awkward hugging because John needs to touch him; needs to feel his body warm and alive.     
  
“John,” Sherlock murmurs, but it’s not the reproach he had expected and a beat later Sherlock is returning the hug, long arms wrapped tightly around John's shoulders, his head buried against John’s neck.     
  
They stay like that for a long time, the only sounds their slow breathing and the crashing of the waves in the background. Finally, John manages to get himself together and pulls away, sinking into the other chair.    
  
“So,” he says with a smile, “Go on then. How did you do it, genius?”    
  
Sherlock gives him a wide, genuine smile and then he’s off, talking a mile a minute and gesturing wildly as he explains just how he faked his own death. John smiles and watches him and it’s almost as if they’re back in Baker Street and Sherlock is doing the big reveal after a case. God, John has missed this: missed Sherlock and his excitement and his inappropriate humour and - everything.     
  
After he has explained his fake suicide, Sherlock goes on to recount every detail of his adventures over the last year and John laughs and admonishes and rolls his eyes when necessary. Finally, they fall into a comfortable silence and John is still smiling. He feels alive in a way he hasn’t for the last twelve months and he can’t bear the thought that this feeling will be gone again soon. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him as his smile slowly fades as he turns to his friend.    
  
“How long do we have?”    
  
“A few days. Four, maybe five.”    
  
“And then you’ll be gone again.”    
  
Sherlock nods and neither of them says it, but they both know that he will go alone and John will have to return to London and the lie his life has become.     
  
“You can stay here,” Sherlock says decisively, “There’s a spare bedroom. Enough food for two.”    
  
“Yeah, alright. I’ll get my stuff from the hotel tomorrow. I'm sure Mycroft can fund a new return ticket."    
  
Sherlock smiles softly and John settles back in his chair, suffused with warmth.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year after Reichenbach, John is sent to Corsica on an errand for Mycroft. What he doesn't expect to find is a second chance to say all the things he never said.

_“Goodbye, John.”_

_Before John can say anything, Sherlock is falling and John thinks he lets out a cry but he can’t be sure. He stumbles forward, heart thumping in his chest, only to be knocked over by a passing cyclist. Dazed and confused, he drags himself to his feet and rushes to the crowd that has gathered._

_“I’m a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please. No, he’s my friend. He’s my friend. Please.”_

_He pushes and elbows his way to the front and then his legs go weak and someone is pulling him away just as he grabs hold of Sherlock’s wrist. There is blood, too much blood, and blue eyes staring out at nothing._

_“Oh, Jesus, no.”_

John starts awake, his chest heaving. Apparently even the knowledge that Sherlock is alive isn't enough to stop the nightmare that has tormented him for the last twelve months. He rolls out of the bed and creeps down the hallway, pausing at the open door of the main bedroom. There is no sign of Sherlock and for a moment John panics - until he remembers Sherlock's unpredictable sleeping habits.

He tiptoes down the stairs and into the kitchen and then spots Sherlock out on the veranda, dressed in threadbare pyjamas. He is smoking, which John supposes he shouldn't be so surprised about. The tip of the cigarette flares red as he takes a drag before blowing the smoke out into the darkness.

John joins Sherlock out on the veranda and looks out at the sea, letting the low susurrus of the waves calm him. He feels Sherlock's gaze tracking over him - no doubt reading the evidence of his nightmare in his rumpled pyjamas, red eyes and tense muscles - but the other man says nothing. He takes another drag of his cigarette. They stand there in silence as Sherlock gives a long, slow exhale and then stubs the cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. He returns to his previous position and his long hands wrap around the veranda’s banister, his fingers flexing. Sherlock clears his throat and John looks up expectantly, but Sherlock is still staring out into the darkness.

“There are things I wanted to say,” Sherlock finally murmurs.

“When? Earlier?”

“No,” Sherlock answers, his voice strained, “When I was saying goodbye.”

John doesn’t know if he can listen to this, not after the nightmare he just had, but there is something in Sherlock’s profile - in the way he won’t look at John - that stops him from speaking up.

“Of course, they listened to the call. During the inquest.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock hums in acknowledgement and for a moment John thinks that is all he is going to say.

“It was odd, trying to find the right words. Trying to make it believable.”

“It was believable, trust me,” John grinds out and Sherlock looks at him for the first time, eyes dark as they flick over him.

“John, I -”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?” Sherlock asks, curious.

“Well... no. No, it’s not fine. It’s... I don’t know what it is. But the fact that you’ve actually admitted you were wrong, for once... that helps.”

“I wasn’t wrong. I did what I had to do in order to -”

"Sherlock, shut up," John pleads. "Just stick to you’re sorry, okay. And tell me what you wanted to say.”

Sherlock holds his gaze for a long moment and then with a soft smile he turns his gaze back to the beach. It is quiet for a while and John is about to prompt him again when Sherlock swallows, looking endearingly awkward, before he squares his shoulders and soldiers on.

“I would have told you that you, John Watson, are a good man. And that I don’t know what I did before you... And I don’t want to say goodbye.”

Sherlock’s voices breaks on the last words and he takes a shaky breath, his eyes trained on the darkness in front of him.

“And if I'd been braver I might have said that I love you... and that I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to survive without you.”

John’s world is tipped upside down for the second time in a day. He doesn’t know what those words mean to Sherlock, but they mean something and his head is spinning.

“Sherlock,” he says, taking Sherlock’s arm, “Sherlock, look at me.”

Sherlock turns to him, reluctantly, and he looks so confused, as if he's bracing himself for a rebuttal, that John doesn't need to ask.

"Sherlock," he says again, because he can, because Sherlock is alive and here and he's looking at John as if John might be about to crush him. John smiles and reaches up, traces his fingers down the scar at Sherlock's right temple. Sherlock watches him carefully for a few seconds and then he is crowding into John's personal space, his shaking hands cupping John's face as he presses his lips against John's.

"John," he whispers against John's mouth. It's a desperate, broken sound that makes John want to hold on tightly and never let go.

John twines his hand in Sherlock's hair, pressing back into the kiss. Their lips brush over and over until it's not enough, not now that John has the taste of Sherlock on his lips. He pushes forward, locks their mouths together even as he does his best to drag Sherlock down to a more convenient height. Sherlock lets out a low moan against his mouth and rounds his spine, fitting them together as best he can.

John kisses him hungrily, a year of desperation pouring out into the kiss, but then he has to force himself away; he has to see Sherlock’s face and know that this is real. Sherlock looks bewildered and utterly overwhelmed and John smiles, pressing his hand to Sherlock’s cheek. He draws Sherlock back into another kiss, slower but no less intense than before.

Months ago, John had spent several pointless hours imagining this very moment but he could never make it real enough, could never picture Sherlock like this: sensual, eager and nervous all at once. Sherlock presses close, his height overwhelming but somehow arousing at the same time, and he kisses John as if he might never get the chance again. They part momentarily, breathless, with their foreheads pressed together.

"I love you too," John whispers, "Of course I do. I thought I’d never get to tell you. And I missed you so -"

He cannot finish because Sherlock's mouth is on his again, desperate and insistent, and John can taste the salt of tears between them but he honestly can't tell if it's him crying, or Sherlock, or both of them.

“Sherlock,” he breathes into the kiss, “Sherlock.”

“Come to bed with me,” Sherlock murmurs as he pulls away, breathing the words against John’s temple. “Come to bed. We won’t do anything you don’t want, but I- I need you there, John. Please.”

John has no intention of refusing and he nods, pressing into the caress at his temple. Sherlock stays there for several moments, and then finally tears himself away, shining eyes looking down at John.

****

They don't make it to the bed. They get as far as the doorway before Sherlock grabs John again, as if he can't bear to wait five seconds longer. He pins John against the doorjamb, hands framing his face as he kisses him softly, over and over again. He whispers John’s name in between kisses and all John can do is hold on as he is consumed with desire and affection and desperation. His hands grip Sherlock’s hips tightly, keeping him close.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” Sherlock murmurs against John’s jaw as his kisses meander slowly downwards to John’s neck.

“That should be my line,” John jokes weakly. His hands clench even tighter on Sherlock’s hips when Sherlock presses an open-mouthed kiss against the base of his neck. He allows this for a few moments but then draws Sherlock’s mouth back to his own.

John likes to think of himself as an experienced man. He’s almost forty, after all, and he’s had a fair number of sexual partners although he’s never - not once - been attracted to another man. Strangely, it is not this which makes him suddenly nervous, or makes him hesitate where on any other occasion he would have tackled his partner to the bed by now. He thinks it might be the knowledge that he never thought he would have this chance with Sherlock, even before he believed Sherlock to be dead and gone forever. Sherlock has always been aloof, except on a very few memorable occasions, and to see him like this, to know that he wants John so desperately, is overwhelming.

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock scolds, breaking the kiss and leaning his forehead against John’s.

It is such a Sherlock thing to say that John smiles, leaning into Sherlock's body.

"You said something about a bed?" John whispers and Sherlock instantly tears himself away and moves further into the room. He doesn't even look to see if John is following. He knows John will follow him anywhere.

John's nervousness returns once they're actually on the bed but he has no time to hesitate because Sherlock is pressing close and kissing him again. In the face of Sherlock's obvious desire, John cannot find it in himself to keep second-guessing, not with the little time they have together. He wraps his arms around Sherlock, one hand on his nape, the other at the base of his spine and loses himself in the kiss. Sherlock gives a choked moan and pushes even closer, clinging onto John’s pyjama top.

“John,” he breathes when they break for air, pressing his cheek to John’s as if he can’t bear the slightest separation. “John.”

For his part, John is struggling to maintain any kind of composure. He has missed his friend so much, suffered so much in his absence that he wants to bury himself inside Sherlock’s skin. He wants to get close enough to feel his heart beating, feel his blood pulsing. He’s breathing heavily against Sherlock’s neck as he twines his fingers in the fabric of Sherlock’s top for a moment before tugging it out of the way and laying his fingers on the warm skin of Sherlock’s back. Sherlock gasps and then they are kissing again, open mouths coming together in desperation. There is nothing gentle about the way they cling to each other now, fingernails digging into skin and fabric.

“I missed you so much,” John groans against Sherlock’s mouth, urging him closer, closer still.

“John.” Sherlock’s reply is almost a whine now and he wraps a leg around John’s, forcing their hips together.

Some distant part of John registers their mutual arousal but it is soon forgotten in a fog of closer, closer, closer. He has managed to get Sherlock’s top up around his chest and finally succeeds in getting it off, baring even more of Sherlock’s skin to his eager hands. He runs one hand down the length of Sherlock’s spine and Sherlock arches into it, breaking their kiss with a desperate moan. With a bit of shifting, John coaxes Sherlock to settle over him and lets himself wallow in the feeling of being covered, surrounded, by Sherlock. He opens his eyes to find Sherlock looking down at him with a heartbroken expression.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again,” Sherlock whispers.

John doesn't know what to say in reply and his throat feels constricted, dry. He can feel the prickle of tears at his eyelids again and blinks them away quickly. Before he can say anything, Sherlock lowers himself to his forearms and leans in close, pressing his head to John's. John closes his eyes again and wraps his hands around the back of Sherlock's neck, holding him close.

They lay there, entwined, for several long moments. Every point of contact - heads, chests, hips, knees - feels like a revelation. They are breathing into each other, hearts beating in time, and this simple contact feels like one of the most intimate things John has ever done.

"I've thought about you constantly over the last year," Sherlock murmurs, "I've never wanted anyone the way I want you."

Every confession that falls from Sherlock's lips makes John alternately angry, then sad. They make him yearn for a way through this mess. All of Sherlock's words, all of his actions, speak of a need for forgiveness that John doubts he can provide yet. The tightness in his chest - fear, anger, anxiety, grief - is not something that can be assuaged with a couple of late-night confessions. He knows this, but it doesn't stop him from holding Sherlock to him as tightly as possible. It doesn't make him pull away when Sherlock kisses him again.

Desperation finally claws its way to the surface and he forces Sherlock's mouth open wide, plunders it with his tongue as he twines his fingers in Sherlock's wild hair. He is overcome with the need to leave a mark, something tangible that will still be there when he wakes in the morning; something that proves he is not dreaming. His teeth scrape Sherlock's already swollen lips with intent and Sherlock hums against him, presses down until all John can focus on is the heat between their bodies.

John's self-control snaps and in the space of a breath, Sherlock is on his back and John is rocking against him. He still has his hands twisted in Sherlock's curls and he presses his mouth to Sherlock's neck, teeth brushing the delicate skin.

"If you ever do that to me again," John growls, rocking harder against the man below him, "If you ever leave me like that again, I will hunt you down."

Sherlock gasps, head thrown back under John's assault, and his hands scrabble to get a grip on John's waist.

"You can't - you can't break me like that again, Sherlock. Do you hear me?" John grinds out, pressing his face into the side of Sherlock's neck.

"Yes. Yes, John."

Sherlock is pulling them together as frantically as John is pushing down now and he wraps his legs around John's hips as John captures his mouth again. There is nothing left now but need, and somehow they manage to coordinate well enough to create the perfect friction, even through their remaining clothes. All it takes is a minute, maybe two, and John is falling over the edge, groaning into Sherlock's mouth. He is still struggling for breath when Sherlock follows a few seconds later with a gasp of John's name.

[ __](http://yalublyutebya.livejournal.com/14863.html)


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year after Reichenbach, John is sent to Corsica on an errand for Mycroft. What he doesn't expect to find is a second chance to say all the things he never said.

Dawn is only just starting to turn the sky pink when John wakes, but the space next to him is glaringly empty. A moment later, he spots movement out of the corner of his eye. He rolls onto his back, leaning up on his elbows, and stills when he sees Sherlock. The other man is sitting on the windowsill, smoking a cigarette, dressed only in boxers and a loose shirt. He looks as aloof and detached as ever but it only takes a glance at the red mark on Sherlock’s neck to prove that last night was not just a vivid dream.  
  
“Morning,” John says as Sherlock finally turns to him, finishing and disposing of his cigarette.  
  
“Morning,” Sherlock replies, his mouth twitching into a smile.  
  
Without a moment’s hesitation Sherlock climbs onto the bed, crawls up over John, and presses his lips to John’s mouth. John huffs out a breath in surprise but pulls Sherlock close with a hand at the back of his neck. Sherlock kisses him hungrily, then moves to nip at his jaw.  
  
“I thought you were never going to wake up,” Sherlock complains.  
  
“Some people need more than four hours’ sleep."  
  
“Hmm. Shame,” Sherlock murmurs smoothly, tracing his tongue over John’s pulse point. “I could help you stay up longer, if you like.”  
  
John laughs, even as he leans into the caress of Sherlock’s tongue.  
  
“Innuendo. Not usually your forte.”  
  
He can feel Sherlock’s smile against his skin and he draws the other man away, cradles his face in his hands.  
  
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”  
  
“And it can’t possibly wait?” Sherlock comments with a raised eyebrow. John blushes. This is definitely a side of Sherlock he had not expected.  
  
“There are so many things I want to do to you," he whispers in John's ear.  
  
John lets out a helpless moan and is suddenly uncomfortably aware of his nakedness, even with the sheet as a barrier between Sherlock's body and his.  
  
"Sherlock... Wait, I..."  
  
He has his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, as if to push him away, but they both know if he really wanted Sherlock gone, he'd have done something about it already.  
  
Sherlock groans but then he is moving to lie on his back beside John. He is still close enough that their shoulders brush with the slightest movement.  
  
"Thank you," John says, "This is... new, for me."  
  
"I know."  
  
When John glances in his direction, Sherlock looks thoughtful but his expression softens and he smiles as soon as he catches John watching him. John jolts when he feels Sherlock’s long fingers winding around his.  
  
“You were saying?”  
  
“Oh. Yes. Yesterday, at the beach... why did you make me wait so long?”  
  
Sherlock tenses almost immediately and he looks away, fixes his gaze on the ceiling.  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
“I wasn’t supposed to show myself to you at all," he explains hesitantly, "I wanted to - I had to see you, but you weren't supposed to know."  
  
“What?”  
  
Sherlock’s gaze flicks to his and then back to the ceiling.  
  
“The success of my plan rests on my remaining dead to everyone who knows me. Especially you.”  
  
John has to take several deep breaths, has to close his eyes and focus on staying calm.  
  
“How long were you planning on staying dead?”  
  
“As long as it took.”  
  
John inhales sharply, clenches his hands - and only then remembers that Sherlock’s hand is still clasped in his. He releases it in a rush, struggling to control his anger.  
  
“Why did you get Mycroft to send me here then? Why risk it?” John asks, bitterness colouring his voice.  
  
“I wanted-"  
  
“I know we went through this yesterday," John cuts in, "But it obviously didn’t sink in. Do you have any idea what it did to me, losing you?”  
  
John had thought the intense emotions of last night had somewhat calmed in the light of day, soothed by the intimacy he had shared with Sherlock, but in an instant they all come swarming back and his left hand starts to tremble.  
  
“A part of me died with you, do you understand that?” he asks, his voice shaking, “I could barely function for- for months afterwards.”  
  
“John.”  
  
Sherlock moves close, his head pressed to John’s shoulder. John wants to shout at him, wants to push him away, but he can’t bring himself to do it.  
  
“And what happens now? Now that I know you’re alive? Do you honestly expect me to go home and pretend you’re still dead?”  
  
“I need you to,” Sherlock whispers, “I have to keep you safe.”  
  
“I’ve done a pretty good job of keeping myself safe for the last thirty-eight years.”  
  
“Except for the bullet in the shoulder, you mean.”  
  
John takes a calming breath. He still can’t bring himself to open his eyes and look at Sherlock.  
  
“I don’t know if I can do this, Sherlock. I can’t be this close to you and then go home and pretend it never happened. I’m not as good an actor as you.”  
  
“You don’t understand.”  
  
“No. I really don’t.”  
  
John finally forces his eyes open and turns his head towards Sherlock. Sherlock has his face buried against John’s shoulder and doesn’t look up when John moves.  
  
“Moriarty was one man, one small part of a huge organisation. There are a number of men already fighting to take his place. If they get even the slightest hint that I am alive, they will kill everyone I care about. Not just you, John. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly. Anyone with even the smallest link to me. All those people dead, because of me. I can't let that happen.”  
  
Silence falls over them and John feels his chest tighten at the thought of all those innocent people killed. He doesn’t like it, but he is starting to understand the danger they are in; starting to understand what Sherlock is trying to protect them from.  
  
“Sherlock,” he says, rolling onto his side and pressing his mouth to Sherlock’s hair as he loops an arm round the other man’s shoulders, “Let me help. I’ll do anything. I just want you home again.”  
  
“John-”  
  
“Think about it, at least. Please.”  
  
Sherlock lifts his head and holds John’s gaze for a moment, before he nods hesitantly.  
  
“I just want you home,” John repeats, leaning in and brushing his lips against Sherlock’s, “With me.”  
  
Sherlock moans and John tugs the other man flush against him, kissing him tenderly.  
  
****  
  
The day passes far too quickly, and the next one even more so. They spend hours talking, making up for a year of silence. They walk along the beach, hand in hand, and spend an inordinate amount of time wrapped around each other in bed. It feels like some kind of warped honeymoon and John never wants it to end.  
  
On the fourth morning John stumbles sleepily downstairs to find Sherlock at the kitchen table, an envelope clutched in his hands.  
  
"What's that?" he asks, resting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.  
  
"Flight details," Sherlock says quietly. He tilts his head and presses his cheek against John's hand.  
  
Even though John knew this was coming, knew their time was limited, he feels suddenly weak. He drops into the nearest chair.  
  
"When?" he manages to get out.  
  
"Your flight to London leaves tomorrow morning."  
  
"And you?"  
  
"Tomorrow afternoon."  
  
"Where to?" he asks, helpless to stop himself.  
  
Sherlock simply shakes his head. They've been over this a hundred times, but John is still desperate to know. Sherlock is just as desperate for him not to. John rubs his eyes tiredly and starts when he feels Sherlock's fingers wrapping around his wrist. Sherlock pulls his hand away and leans in, pressing their heads together. John lets out a long shaky breath and buries his fingers in the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck.  
  
"Promise me you won't do anything stupid," John says. "Promise me that'll you'll come back."  
  
"John."  
  
"Promise me," he repeats firmly, his grip on Sherlock's hair tightening for a second.  
  
"I promise."  
  
Sherlock tilts forward and their mouths meet in a gentle kiss. All John can think about is the fact that they are running out of time, and desperation leaks into the kiss. It makes him kiss Sherlock more roughly, makes him tighten his grip almost hard enough to hurt.  
  
Sherlock pulls away and presses his face to John's neck as John locks his arms around the other man's shoulders.  
  
"Come back to bed," John says. "If we've only got today left, I don't want to waste a single minute."  
  
Sherlock snorts in what sounds like amusement.  
  
"I see your skill at soppy romantic drivel hasn't diminished in the slightest."  
  
Despite his mocking, Sherlock doesn't move from John's embrace.  
  
"Shut up, you git."  
  
"Will you write me love letters?" Sherlock asks playfully.  
  
"And where exactly would I send them?"  
  
"Nice try," Sherlock mumbles, pressing his mouth to John's skin.  
  
John squeezes his eyes shut and his heart clenches painfully. He wants this so desperately; wants Sherlock back in Baker Street, taking the piss and dragging him around London and sharing his bed.  
  
"I love you," John whispers.  
  
"I love you," Sherlock replies quietly and John presses his face against Sherlock’s hair, breathing in his scent for a moment.  
  
“Come on, enough soppy drivel,” John says. “Come back to bed."


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year after Reichenbach, John is sent to Corsica on an errand for Mycroft. What he doesn't expect to find is a second chance to say all the things he never said.

Sherlock is sprawled about halfway down the bed, his head resting on John’s bare stomach, his eyes closed. John is sleepy and content as he plays absentmindedly with Sherlock’s hair.  
  
“Still can’t get used to you as a blonde,” John murmurs, pushing the hair back from Sherlock’s forehead.  
  
“I don’t know why it bothers you so much. It’s hardly the most drastic disguise.”  
  
“It just doesn’t seem very... you. You don’t look as clever.”  
  
Sherlock glares at him in annoyance and John grins in reply, coaxing him up for a kiss.  
  
“And then there’s the fact that the curtains don’t match the carpet,” John says, fighting not to laugh.  
  
“Juvenile,” Sherlock comments with a note of petulance that just makes John want to kiss him again.  
  
He gives in to the urge and after a few seconds of resistance, Sherlock kisses back, his hand resting on John’s hip. There is no intent in Sherlock’s grasp but John’s body has other ideas and he moans low in his throat. When Sherlock breaks the kiss to nose at his jaw and brush his tongue against John’s neck, he lets out a louder moan, hands gripping Sherlock’s shoulders.  
  
“I’m too old for this much excitement,” he says, pulling Sherlock back into a kiss.  
  
“A certain part of your anatomy disagrees,” Sherlock mumbles against his mouth and all of a sudden they both dissolve into giggles. They try to keep kissing but soon have to give up because they can’t stop laughing. Sherlock settles against his side, his body shaking against John’s. It’s ridiculous and John isn’t sure what they’re even laughing about anymore but it feels good, the tension of the last few days seeping away.  
  
Their laughter slowly tails off and Sherlock settles with his head against John’s shoulder as John wraps an arm around him to hold him close.  
  
“I can’t wait to have you back home,” John whispers. “Shooting the walls. Contaminating perfectly good food with your experiments -”  
  
“Your food contaminated my experiments, actually.”  
  
John ignores him and continues.  
  
“Winding Mrs. Hudson up. Moaning at how boring everything is. Spending the whole day in pyjamas because you can’t be bothered to get dressed.”  
  
“This isn’t a very flattering account of my personality,” Sherlock complains.  
  
“And yet, it’s all true. You said no more romantic drivel,” John says with a smile, brushing his fingers against Sherlock’s back.  
  
“Actually, that was you.”  
  
John huffs out a laugh and draws Sherlock against him.  
  
“When you get home, I’m going to tie you to the bed so you can’t go away again.”  
  
They fall silent for a moment and Sherlock reaches out to take John's free hand.  
  
"John... If I don't come back-"  
  
"No."  
  
Sherlock huffs and raises himself up on his elbow.  
  
"You're a rational man. You know just as well as I do that there's a chance-"  
  
"No," John says in a clipped voice.  
  
"John."  
  
"No," John says again, quietly. "This is not something I want to be rational about. You are coming home. I will be waiting. Understood?"  
  
Sherlock nods and leans down to kiss John.  
  
****  
  
It doesn't seem to matter how many times they do this, it still feels like the first time. They have been intimate for three days but the raw intensity of that first time is still there every time they come together. It feels new and yet familiar at the same time. This time, the knowledge that this is their last night hangs heavy over them and they take their time, trying to draw out the closeness as long as possible.  
  
They touch each other reverently, trying to commit everything to memory. They do not know how long it will be until they meet again. They don't know how long they will have only these memories to sustain them. John finds himself feeling overwhelmed and sentimental and he can't stop talking, telling Sherlock everything he thought he'd never get the chance to say.  
  
"You're so gorgeous," John murmurs, brushing his fingers against Sherlock's cheek. "And you don't even realise it. You don't see the effect you have on people."  
  
Sherlock silences him with a kiss and forces him onto his back, settling over him. John wraps his arms around him and holds him close. Sherlock moans into the kiss and deepens it, his tongue sliding against John's. Caught up in the kiss, John barely notices Sherlock shifting, putting all his weight on one elbow so he can reach down and wrap his hand around John. As soon as Sherlock touches him, John bucks helplessly against the warmth of his hand. He breaks the kiss to catch his breath and presses his cheek against Sherlock's.  
  
"God, your hands."  
  
He can feel Sherlock's smile and he kisses his temple, smoothing his palms down the other man's back. He keeps going until he can get a good grip on Sherlock's backside and pull him against him.  
  
"That arse."  
  
Sherlock huffs in amusement but he removes his hand and rocks against John, his cheek falling against John's shoulder. By the angle of his head, it's obvious that he's watching them move together.  
  
"We look good together," John says, looking at the way they slide against each other.  
  
"We do," Sherlock agrees breathlessly.  
  
Sherlock pushes harder against him, the best kind of friction, and he moves his mouth to John's ear.  
  
"The next time we see each other, I want you to fuck me," he says, his voice a low purr. "I want to feel you inside me."  
  
"Oh, God."  
  
John’s imagination runs away with him and he lets out a groan, dragging Sherlock’s mouth back to his. He has one hand in Sherlock’s hair, one hand still on his arse, and it could all be over in a matter of seconds but instead he forces himself to a stop and tears his mouth from Sherlock’s. Sherlock makes a choked noise at the loss, but he seems to understand and he stops moving and leans back to look at John.  
  
“I don’t want this night to end,” John admits.  
  
“As pleasant a thought as that is, it would be against the laws of physics,” Sherlock says, his eyes twinkling with amusement.  
  
John rolls his eyes and rubs the back of Sherlock’s neck affectionately.  
  
“Is there a sentimental bone in your body at all?”  
  
“Of course,” Sherlock replies. “Otherwise you’d still be in London.”  
  
“Yes. Miserable and alone. Can’t wait to get back to that.”  
  
“John-”  
  
“It’s fine,” he cuts in, pulling Sherlock down into a kiss now that he's had a chance to calm down. He doesn’t want to think about what happens after tomorrow; doesn’t want to waste what precious time they have left agonising about the weeks, months, maybe even years ahead.  
  
He rolls them over and settles over Sherlock, pulling back from his flushed mouth to smear kisses down the length of his neck.  
  
“You’re brilliant. You amaze me. Every single day you amaze me.”  
  
“John,” Sherlock gets out hesitantly, but John continues.  
  
“I was so alone before I met you. I didn’t even realise it. I just knew something was wrong, something was missing.”  
  
He presses kisses to the base of Sherlock’s neck and draws his tongue over his collarbone.  
  
“You make me feel alive. You give me a reason to live.”  
  
Sherlock is panting now, but whether it is as a direct result of his words or the swipe of his tongue over Sherlock’s stomach is unclear.  
  
“Without you, I’m nothing.”  
  
“John, you are-”  
  
Sherlock breaks off helplessly as John’s tongue flicks against his navel.  
  
“You are everything,” John murmurs. “And I won’t live in a world without you again.”  
  
Before Sherlock can say anything, John swallows him down in one smooth movement and Sherlock can only moan, his hands clutching at John’s shoulders. It is only the second time he has done this but any hesitance is wiped away with Sherlock’s moans. John groans around him and takes him deeper, savouring the taste and smell, the very essence, of Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock is gasping his name over and over as his nails dig into John’s skin. John moves faster, desperate to push him over the edge. Sherlock twitches against him, fighting his body’s urge to thrust, and John grins and swallows him down as far as he can go. Sherlock moans loudly, tries to muffle the sounds by biting down on his hand, and then he is coming, his whole body shuddering underneath John.  
  
John is barely recovered himself when Sherlock starts tugging on his arms, drawing John up the length of his body and sealing their lips together as he wraps his hand around John's cock. John kisses him harder and loses himself in the feel of Sherlock’s hand. It is over in only a few moments and he groans as he finds release, and then collapses against Sherlock.  
  
“I love you,” John breathes, as Sherlock loops his arms around him, not allowing him to move.  
  
“John. I love you. You know that, don’t you?”  
  
“I know. I know.”  
  
They finally disengage from their embrace and clean themselves up quickly, before settling down to sleep. John wraps an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and holds him close, presses his face against Sherlock’s hair.  
  
“I am going to miss you so much.”  
  
Sherlock remains silent but he presses his face into John’s neck and John can feel him tremble. He kisses the top of the other man’s head and relaxes into the pillows with a sigh. In the moments before he falls asleep, he hopes that tomorrow will never come.


	5. Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year after Reichenbach, John is sent to Corsica on an errand for Mycroft. What he doesn't expect to find is a second chance to say all the things he never said.

London is dull and overcast, even at the beginning of June. There is a faint threat of rain and the temperature drops towards late afternoon. It leaves John aching for the warmth of Corsica. It has come to feel like a second home, for all that he has only been there four times in total.  
  
It has been two years since he left Sherlock that first time. They have met at the beach house on three further occasions, but it has been five months since he last saw the place. He aches for Sherlock too, more than anything. He has long been resigned to the fact that he can not be with Sherlock; can not follow him and help him with his mission. It does not make it any easier to be stuck at home, hoping for news day after day, panicking himself with thoughts of illness, injury, and worse.  
  
Early on, in the weeks after their first parting, John had gone to Mycroft, desparate for news. He had bullied and cajoled, tried to play on Mycroft's guilt, and eventually begged for anything he might know, but Mycroft had remained silent. It left John angrier than he had ever been with the elder Holmes and it was not until three months later, when Mycroft silently handed him a ticket to Corsica, that John could bring himself to talk to him again. As much as it pained him to admit it, he knew that Mycroft's silence was to protect his brother and John had to accept that.  
  
Two years is a long time though, and a handful of days spent together is hardly enough to make up for the long months apart. There are times when John wishes it were easier; wishes he could fall for someone else. He dreams of Sherlock and then wakes alone, and it is the worst feeling in the world. All he can do is wait, and hope that someday soon, Sherlock will come home.  
  
John has been working long shifts at the hospital for weeks, trying to distract himself from the loneliness that gnaws at him. It makes his heartache somewhat more bearable when he keeps himself busy and only returns home to sleep. He has worked eighteen hours straight today and it is close to midnight when he finally lets himself into 221b. He is exhausted and can barely keep himself on his feet. He needs a drink, maybe some green tea, and then he needs to sleep.  
  
John heads straight through to the kitchen as soon as he has thrown his coat off, and comes to a dead halt. The door to Sherlock's bedroom is open. It has been closed for months, all of Sherlock's belongings locked away, out of sight. It serves a double purpose: to convince others of his continued grief, and to prevent the pang of loss he feels when he is reminded of what he is missing. Now the door stands open and John edges forward cautiously.  
  
He hears movement from within the dark room and a shadowy figure appears in the doorway a moment later. He braces for an attack but then the man takes a step forward, and John's breath leaves him in a rush.  
  
"Sherlock," he whispers.  
  
Sherlock is dark-haired again and seems taller than ever as he looms in the doorway. John blinks, twice. For a moment he is sure he is hallucinating. Sherlock takes another step forward and then he smiles.  
  
"John."  
  
John moves forward quickly and cups Sherlock's face in his hands. He is suddenly smiling so hard his face hurts.  
  
"You're home."  
  
"I'm home," Sherlock says, and he pulls John towards him and dips his head, pressing their lips together.  
  
"It's over? Tell me it's over," John breathes against Sherlock's mouth.  
  
"It's over. Finished."  
  
John kisses him hard and guides him backwards into the room, pushes him to the bed that was once his. Sherlock moans and tugs him close, presses his face against John's neck.  
  
"I missed you so much," Sherlock murmurs. "It's been too long."  
  
"God, yes."  
  
John draws him back into a hungry kiss and presses down against him, desperate to erase five months of longing. Sherlock hooks his legs around John's and pushes up against him.  
  
"Five months," John groans. "Five months without this, without you."  
  
"John."  
  
John crushes their mouths together and buries his hands in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock is already working one hand under John's jumper and shirt, while the other is at the button on John's trousers.  
  
"Wait, stop," John gets out, pulling away. Sherlock gives him a shocked look that quickly turns into an expression of realisation.  
  
"You've found someone else."  
  
"No, you idiot," John says, pinning Sherlock's wrists to the bed just so he can see Sherlock's eyes go wide with arousal. "This bed is cold and it’s not made. And I've wanted you in my bed for a very long time."  
  
Sherlock gives him a sly smile and John smiles back and dips his head to press a quick kiss to his lips, before pulling away and releasing him. John gets to his feet and grabs Sherlock's hand, pulling him along behind as he rushes out of the room, through the kitchen, and up the stairs to his own bedroom.  
  
As soon as the door shuts behind them, John tackles Sherlock to the bed and then sits back on his heels to get a good look at the man below him.  
  
"I hope you're not just going to sit there," Sherlock says, fingers going to the buttons of his shirt.  
  
"You have no idea how many times I've dreamt about this."  
  
John puts his hands over Sherlock's and pushes them away, undoing the last few buttons himself. He sweeps the shirt open and his eyes flick over Sherlock's bare torso, noting a few new scars.  
  
"Did you get stabbed?" he asks with a frown, resting his hand over a particular nasty scar just below Sherlock's ribs.  
  
"Just a nick."  
  
"Liar," John counters with a smile. He leans down and presses his lips to the scar. Sherlock inhales sharply and a moment later, he is fumbling with John's jumper, trying to get it off. John sits up to help and quickly gets his shirt off as well, before settling over Sherlock.  
  
"John..." Sherlock starts, but then trails off, his hands resting either side of John's face.  
  
"I know."  
  
John leans in and kisses him, his hand going to Sherlock's trousers. He manages to get them undone and, with a bit of wriggling, Sherlock gets them off. John runs a hand over Sherlock's bare thigh and hooks it around his hip, grinding against the warm solidity beneath him. Sherlock moans and John cuts it off with a kiss. He is torn between the urge to take and have right this instant, and the desire to draw this out and savour the moment. The decision is taken away from him when he realises he’s missing a few necessary things.  
  
“Shit,” he growls, tearing himself away from Sherlock’s mouth. “I don’t have anything. No condoms and definitely no lubricant.”  
  
“How disappointing, John,” Sherlock says sarcastically.  
  
“In my defence, I’ve been in a monogamous relationship with a dead man for the last two years.”  
  
Sherlock smiles and hooks his other leg around John, pulling him close once more.  
  
“Luckily for you, I have been preparing for this moment for the last week.”  
  
John practically growls his approval and crushes their lips together. He is determined to get them both naked in minimal time and, as soon as he gets rid of Sherlock’s boxers, he strips off his remaining clothes. Sherlock leans over the side of the bed, grabs his trousers and retrieves a condom and a small tube of lubricant from one of the pockets.  
  
“Hurry up,” he says, shoving both things into John’s hands.  
  
John is too impatient himself to mock and he is already in the process of spreading the lube over his fingers when Sherlock grabs his wrist, stopping him.  
  
“No. Just get on with it. I’m more than ready.”  
  
“Are you sure?” John asks. They’ve still only done this a few times and every time before he has taken the time to prepare Sherlock.  
  
“Yes. John, please.”  
  
Sherlock lays back and hauls him close, pulling him into a desperate kiss. He snatches the condom from John and rolls it on, and John has to take several deep breaths to calm himself down at the touch of Sherlock’s hand.  
  
“John.”  
  
“Yes, yes, alright.”  
  
He slicks himself and manoeuvres them both into a better position, Sherlock’s legs wrapped around him. He hesitates for just a moment but then he is sinking inside Sherlock, his breath leaving him in a rush.  
  
“God, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock lets out a stuttered groan and throws his head back. John sinks all the way in and then has to pause, holding on to the bare edge of control before he pulls out and luxuriously sinks back in.  
  
“Missed you so much,” John chokes out. “Every bloody day.”  
  
“I’m home now,” Sherlock gasps, hands clenched around John’s biceps. “I’m not going anywhere. You said you were going to tie me to the bed.”  
  
John laughs and thrusts harder, drawing another gasp from Sherlock.  
  
“As soon as I’m done making up for lost time,” he promises. His back arches forward, bending so he can kiss Sherlock.  
  
They fall into an easy rhythm, even after all this time apart, their bodies moving together, their mouths joined. After so many months of nothing, it is overwhelming and wonderful at the same time. John knows he isn’t going to last much longer and, by the sound of Sherlock’s moans, neither is he. John grabs one of Sherlock’s hands and guides it to his ready cock. Sherlock lets out a strangled moan and starts to move his hand in time with John’s thrusts.  
  
“Oh God,” John breathes, tension crawling through his body, building and building until suddenly it explodes and he folds forward, choking out a cry as he comes. Sherlock seizes up underneath him and, almost immediately afterwards, comes with a long, drawn-out moan.  
  
John’s arms give out and he collapses on top of Sherlock, his nose pressed against Sherlock’s collarbone.  
  
“As good as you dreamt?” Sherlock pants lazily, his fingers stroking the back of John’s neck.  
  
“A hundred times better.”  
  
Sherlock laughs softly and his lips brush against John’s temple.  
  
“I’m sorry it took so long,” Sherlock says quietly.  
  
“You’re home now. That’s all that matters.”  
  
Sherlock hums in agreement and John yawns, his tired body finally protesting. He manages to untangle himself long enough to clean up and then sinks back on the bed, his head pressed to Sherlock’s.  
  
“You’re home,” he repeats, simply for the sake of it.  
  
“I’m home.”  
  
John smiles and slides his arm under Sherlock’s head as the other man shifts closer, reaching out to lace his fingers through John’s. He is content and peaceful, for the first time in too long, and in moments he falls asleep with Sherlock in his arms.  
  
****  
  
John dreams of Sherlock in his bed and, for the first time, he wakes to find Sherlock fast asleep next to him. The room is flooded with sunlight and when John reluctantly rolls over, the clock on his bedside table tells him that it’s already gone eleven in the morning. He is just thankful that he doesn’t have a shift today. He slips out of bed to the bathroom and returns to find Sherlock now sprawled out across the bed, sheets gathered around his hips, exposing the long sweep of his back and the very top of his buttocks. John smiles at the sight and climbs back into bed.  
  
Sherlock stirs and his eyes flicker open. He breaks into a smile as soon as he sees John.  
  
“Morning.”  
  
“Morning,” John replies, leaning in for a kiss.  
  
As soon as their lips touch, Sherlock tugs John close and deepens the kiss. John smiles and slides his tongue over Sherlock’s, resting a hand low on Sherlock’s back.  
  
They break apart with a start at the sound of knocking downstairs.  
  
“Ah, Lestrade. About time,” Sherlock says.  
  
“Lestrade?”  
  
The knocking comes again, followed by Lestrade’s voice calling out for John.  
  
“You’d better go down before he comes looking for you,” Sherlock suggests, rolling onto his back.  
  
“But what does he want?”  
  
“John?” Lestrade calls and John jumps off the bed and hurries to pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.  
  
“Sherlock?” John prompts but Sherlock waves him away.  
  
“Go.”  
  
John rolls his eyes but leaves, rushing down the stairs and almost colliding with Lestrade at the bottom.  
  
“Greg!”  
  
“Oh, there you are. Thought you were out.”  
  
“Sorry, I was completely out of it. Had a long shift last night.”  
  
Greg nods and follows John into the living room. He looks pleased, but nervous, and he is holding a file in his hand.  
  
“What’s going on?” John asks with a nod towards the file. He feels awkward and is just glad that Greg doesn’t possess Sherlock’s observational skills.  
  
“Good news.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
John sinks into an armchair, looking up at Lestrade expectantly.  
  
“Yesterday morning, Interpol arrested a man called Sebastian Moran, in Paris. They got an anonymous tip, apparently.”  
  
“Okay... So who is he?”  
  
“Moriarty’s right-hand man.”  
  
John’s gaze flies to Lestrade’s, eyes wide in surprise. He has a sneaking suspicion as to the identity of the anonymous tipper.  
  
“And?” John prompts.  
  
“He’s confessed to everything. All of Moriarty’s schemes. How he set Sherlock up. His plan to have you, me and Mrs. Hudson killed if Sherlock didn’t jump off the roof of Bart’s. Everything.”  
  
John spends a moment taking it in, the enormity of what Sherlock has accomplished.  
  
“So, Sherlock’s name has been cleared?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Lestrade sighs and runs a hand through his hair.  
  
“What?” John asks.  
  
“There’s something else. This bloke - Moran - he claims... he says Sherlock’s still alive.”  
  
John isn’t sure what his expression does, but he can tell it isn’t the shock Lestrade expects by the look on the Inspector’s face.  
  
“John-”  
  
“I’ll save you the bother of asking John what he knows,” Sherlock speaks up, appearing in the doorway as Lestrade whirls round to look at him.  
  
“Jesus,” Lestrade chokes out. “You are alive.”  
  
“Evidently.”  
  
“I didn’t know whether to believe him.”  
  
“Yes, well,” Sherlock says awkwardly, crossing his arms across his chest. It is only then that John notices Sherlock is wrapped in John’s dressing gown. Lestrade glances at John, then back to Sherlock, but before he can say anything another voice floats up the stairs.  
  
“Did you find him, Inspector?” Mrs. Hudson calls, the sound of her shoes echoing on the stairs. “Haven’t heard a peep out of him all morn-”  
  
Mrs. Hudson’s voice cuts off and Sherlock turns in the doorway to face her, a hesitant smile on his face.  
  
“Oh, Sherlock!” she cries.  
  
Nobody seems to know what to expect, but then Mrs. Hudson appears, throwing her arms around Sherlock’s middle.  
  
“Oh, you wicked boy! All this time!”  
  
Mrs. Hudson lets out a little sniffle and Sherlock wraps his arm around her shoulders, hugging her against him.  
  
“Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” he says, his tone soft with affection.  
  
“And poor John,” Mrs. Hudson continues. “He was so distraught. You’ve treated us all very badly.”  
  
“I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Hudson. And I intend to make it up to John.”  
  
Their gazes meet across the room and Sherlock smiles.  
  
“I was thinking of a nice holiday,” Sherlock announces and John smiles wider.  
  
“I hear Corsica’s very nice this time of year,” John says.  
  
Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson look confused but all John can focus on is the man across the room from him - back where he belongs, with the people he loves and the people who love him.  
  
  
THE END


End file.
